


love me (more than a memory)

by isuilde



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: ???? - Freeform, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, is sad sex a thing?, main story chapter 9 spoiler, pretty much just the mention of one of the new character tho, sad sex, this thing is so messily written i’m sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24734884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: Sometimes, jealousy isn’t anger and frustration. Sometimes it’s resignation and sorrow, and a willingness to accept.(Tsuzuru, on Omi’s memory of Nachi)
Relationships: Fushimi Omi/Minagi Tsuzuru
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	love me (more than a memory)

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: This took me 72 minutes. I’m over by three minutes because I had no idea how to end this.
> 
> I was gonna make this rarepair week also a challenge for me to write R18 stuff but in the middle of writing this I realize that I don’t know much about sex in general nor am I interested in looking it up so I’ll just. Not do that. Have this terrible angsty sex though cause it’s already done and I’m sorry in advance.

Normally, people would probably call this jealousy.

Except Tsuzuru isn’t sure if this is just jealousy. He knows jealousy—it’s the baseless irritation when he sees Taichi or Tenma hanging off Omi’s arm when they’re watching a horror movie, or the inexplicable urge to walk between Omi and the Director when they go for grocery shopping together. It’s the frustration when Meguru told him about leaving their home to chase after his dream while Tsuzuru couldn’t do anything about his own. It’s the dumb restlessness when he sees Takeru asleep on Juuza’s back, or Yuzuru curling comfortably on Kazunari’s lap. It’s stupid, and he knows that’s what jealousy is, but it shouldn’t feel like this.

It shouldn’t feel like a vice around his throat, or the sharp prickle on the back of it as Omi’s fingers skitter along the lines of his bare hips before settling in-between Tsuzuru’s legs. It shouldn’t feel like bitter tightness in his chest, warring with the pleasure that makes him tremble, helplessly grinding down against Omi’s hand as teeth gently scrapes against his collarbone. It shouldn’t feel like disappointment lodged heavily in his throat, shattering his voice when he tries to engrave Omi’s name against a kiss.

 _“Kuryuu-san has pictures. Of Nachi._ ”

Tsuzuru hears his name, thin and breathless like gossamer threads in the air, feels Omi slides home within him, and god, it’s searingly good—the weight settling carefully atop Tsuzuru, the heat that fills Tsuzuru inside, the friction that forces gasps and groans out of both of them. Omi kisses him, slow and gentle and thorough, whispers Tsuzuru’s name like a sacred chant oh-so treasured and loved, and Tsuzuru—

He wishes it’s anger instead. Maybe it’d be easier then, if it’s fury that burns hot like Omi’s breath mingling with his own. Maybe he’s be able to string hurtful words and hurl it away, perhaps, instead of hacking on the misery lodged in his throat for every gasp Omi draws out of him with each thrust of his hips. It shouldn’t feel like this, Tsuzuru thinks, as he lets Omi presses him against the mattress, his cock against the sheets, a delicious friction contrasting the smooth slide of Omi’s own cock into him.

Jealousy shouldn’t feel like resignation. Like he’s not only a helpless spectator, but also an intruder who happens on something so beautiful and yet so private that he can’t stop looking even though he knows he should. It should feel like anger and frustration and stupidity, not the crushing feeling of defeat when he understands that it’s never a competition.

_“He said Nachi came to his restaurant, sometimes. Demanding to be hired because he wanted to perform. I—“ a gentle laugh, tinged slightly with sadness but thick with fondness. “I never knew. That side of him, back then. I wish I had.”_

Nachi is a memory, one that Omi holds dear and so protectively. One that shaped him into the person he is now, whom Tsuzuru loves so much he sometimes feels like drowning in it. One that perhaps stays on the throne of Omi’s heart, regardless of the ticking hand of time, and Tsuzuru might stand by him, but he’ll never sit on the throne.

It’s not his, and won’t ever be his. And it should be okay, too, because it’s Tsuzuru that Omi touches now—his skin against Omi’s lips, his gasps that Omi steals for himself, his fingers tangled against Omi’s own, his name that falls from Omi’s lips like a steady prayer, with each an almost dizzying spell: _you are loved. You are treasured. You are wanted. Mine, always mine._

With each an unheard wish: _stay_.

He hears those, loud and clear. So strongly conveyed Tsuzuru feels like they’re almost tangible. And in the face of those—of this passion and warmth and love and the slightest of danger lurking somewhere underneath—it’s unfair that all Tsuzuru could think is _I wanted to be your number one_.

He isn’t. He’ll never be—and hasn’t that always been his entire life?

Omi tugs at him, shifts and pushes until Tsuzuru is flat on his back, and when he slides in again, it’s with a sheepish, almost relieved chuckle. He’s close, Tsuzuru realizes, because he recognizes the slight furrow of Omi’s eyebrows, the way he closes his eyes as he moves again, the way his breath can’t seem to find a rhythm. Tsuzuru loves these seconds the most—where Omi looks like he’s about to shatter, like he’s barely holding everything together by a thin thread and counting down to a freefall. 

“Omi-san,” his voice sounds like broken glasses under someone’s foot, and for a moment he can’t breathe. He can’t tell if it’s because the way Omi looks at him, like he’s so helplessly lost and Tsuzuru’s the answer he’s been seeking, or if it’s because he realizes that Nachi used to be the thin piano thread holding Omi together. Or maybe it’s simply the way Omi’s hips snap forward almost ruthlessly deep, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through every nerve of Tsuzuru’s body. “Omi-sa—ah—“

Almost belatedly, Tsuzuru thinks, _I’m about to cry._

So he reaches out, tugs Omi in and circles his arms around Omi’s neck, presses himself against Omi like the slightest distance is unforgivable. His hips meet Omi’s next thrust, earning himself a guttural grunt and Omi’s hips loses the rhythm for the next few thrusts, but still his hands runs through Tsuzuru’s strands like they’re holding a glass sculpture.

_“I’m glad Kuryuu-san showed them to me. That I can still find parts of Nachi I never knew. Even if—“_

Omi comes with a soft sigh around Tsuzuru’s name, his muscles taut as he buries himself as deep as he can within Tsuzuru. But it’s the soft kiss against Tsuzuru’s pulse point that dislodges the lump in Tsuzuru’s throat, that breaks the resignation and turns it into sorrow, prickling his entire being along with the warm pleasure as Omi’s hand closes over his cock and—

 _Don’t cry,_ Tsuzuru tells himself, and yet as the heat, the tension, the pleasure finally pushes him over the edge, the first tear falls.

He comes with a single broken sob. Bites his lip so the rest of them don’t escape along with the tears that blurs his vision, and rides the climax, spurting thick and hot between their stomaches. 

_“Even if he’s no longer here.”_

“Tsuzuru...?” the last syllable of his name tilts questioningly—wondering, worrying, now that pleasure no longer a blanket of haze over their minds. But Tsuzuru tightens his hold, because these tears are the ugliest form of jealousy and he’d be damned if Omi sees them.

Nachi is a memory. That’s all Omi has of him, now, and Tsuzuru doesn’t want to begrudge him that.

It should be enough, that he is loved so thoroughly. That he shares this present with Omi and can hope they do too the future. He’ll accept it, in time. He always does.

So he shakes his head and doesn’t let go of Omi, pressing hot tears into the back of his hand, and breathes.

**——-o0o——-**

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey I finally start writing ~emotions~ again and didn’t run away from this mess, cool.
> 
> Gonna keep rowing this omitsuzu raft guys


End file.
